


Don't Buy Cigarettes

by leopardchic79



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, POV Multiple, already happened before the fic starts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopardchic79/pseuds/leopardchic79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the death of Grantaire, Enjolras finally breaks down and starts to grieve.  He learns just how good of friends he has and discovers that remembering does more to help him heal than trying to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All I wanted to do was write something sappy, that showcased Enjolras/Combeferre/Courfeyrac's friendship. I don't know why that prompted me to kill Grantaire. I'm so sorry! But in the end, I really enjoyed writing this. I hope my use of the past-perfect tense (or whatever it's called) works, because I wasn't completely comfortable with it but I think it works.

_When my life is through_  
 _And the angels ask me to recall_  
 _The thrill of them all_  
 _Then I shall tell them_  
 _I remember you._

“He hasn’t answered my calls or replied to any of my texts,” Combeferre said, pressing the phone to his ear as he walked. He sounded concerned. 

“Same here,” Courfeyrac replied. It was odd to hear him sound so…serious. “Where are you?” 

“I’m a few blocks away from his place, you?” 

“A little further than that. I’ll meet you there?” 

“Okay.” 

After he ended the call, Combeferre checked once more to make sure he hadn’t received any texts from his best friend. He hadn’t, but he wasn’t surprised. Pushing the phone into the pocket of his jeans, he walked briskly towards Enjolras’ apartment and pulled his collar up against the cold drizzle. He was worried about him, yes, but he wasn’t exactly alarmed. 

Enjolras hadn’t shown up to meet Courfeyrac and him for dinner, and when they’d tried to call or text him, they hadn’t had any luck. However, it wasn’t exactly unusual for the blonde to lose himself in work and forget a social meeting or forget to eat. Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac were used to that. Even these days, when the two of them made an extra effort to make sure he met up with them for reasons other than activism or meetings. 

But then they’d both received a text from Henri, telling them they should check on Enjolras, and neither of them were sure of the meaning behind the message. 

Henri was relatively new to their group of friends, having only been a presence in their lives – and meetings – for the past six months or so. But he fit in quite well, sharing the same passion for change and liberty that they all did. Enjolras especially seemed to enjoy his company, although with Enjolras it was often hard to tell. But Combeferre and Courfeyrac were pretty adept at reading him, and they saw things that others failed to see. 

Which is why they were both relatively worried that something may have gone wrong between Enjolras and Henri tonight. Something that prompted his mysterious – and unelaborated upon – text. Something that would better explain the reason why Enjolras wasn’t answering either of them other than his usual excuse of work. 

Combeferre reached his flat first and he let himself in without knocking…Enjolras could yell at him later if he was upset by the invasion of privacy. The darkness of the rooms sent his level of worry higher so he turned on a lamp on the table by the door. 

“Enjolras? Are you home?” 

He didn’t receive a reply, but he found his best friend’s phone, wallet and keys on the coffee table by the couch so he assumed he was at home. Maybe he had simply fallen asleep and all of their worrying was for naught. 

But on the way to his bedroom to check, a small light from the second bedroom – or home-office – caught his eye and he pushed the door open slowly. 

Combeferre wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected to find, but it hadn’t been this. Photos spilling out of shoeboxes on the floor, half-finished paintings propped up against the wall, and Enjolras, leaning against the wall by the open window clutching one of the photos in his hands. 

Swallowing hard, Combeferre took a few steps closer. “Enjolras?” 

He didn’t move but drew in a shaky breath that had Combeferre’s heart aching sharply. One glance at the photos on the floor told him what this was about. But he didn’t know what had prompted it to happen now. Finally. 

Moving closer slowly, he realized with a sickening jolt that Enjolras was crying. He had only just reached out and brushed his shoulder with his fingers, when Enjolras spun around and fell heavily into his arms. He clung desperately to Combeferre and pressed his face into his shoulder. Combeferre was shocked silent momentarily, but he was quick to return the embrace and hold Enjolras tightly. His body was freezing – probably from standing in front of the open window for god knows how long – but his tears were hot as they seeped through his t-shirt. 

This was the heartbreak that had never happened, the grief that had never surfaced. For two long years, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been careful not to smother their friend. But they’d been even more careful to keep a watchful eye on him, waiting for this to happen. 

Grantaire’s death had been sudden and devastating: a car accident that no one had walked away from. And Enjolras had been so quick to build a wall around himself; so thorough in its construction that by the time the shock had worn off there was no way for grief to reach his heart. He hadn’t become cold, nor had he pushed anyone away…but instead he’d let himself become numb to it all. He’d never grieved, never broken down, never let himself feel anything as far as Grantaire was concerned. 

They all worried about him, but Combeferre knew that the only thing that was going to pull Enjolras out from behind his walls was time. 

He smoothed a hand through Enjolras’ messy curls and rubbed his fingers back and forth over the back of his neck soothingly. He kept a tight hold on him and leaned his own head against Enjolras’. The sound of his sobs was heartbreaking and Combeferre wanted nothing more than to make them stop and to take away his pain. It was horrible to hear his best friend so upset, but he also knew that Enjolras needed so desperately to grieve. Walking around numb for two years was turning him into a shadow, and Combeferre knew that although it would be painful, he had to let go and move on. He had to heal. 

A movement caught his eye a few minutes later and he felt a rush of relief to look up and find Courfeyrac in the doorway. He crossed the room in seconds, eyes bright with worry. Combeferre knew with a glance that he had taken in the same scene that he had – the photos, the paintings, and now the tears – and had come to the same conclusion. Enjolras had finally broken. 

He curled himself around Enjolras’ back and slid a hand up around his shoulder, the other reaching out to squeeze Combeferre’s arm in reassurance. “Oh Enjolras…” he breathed sadly, blinking back tears and pressing a kiss to the side of his head. 

“I miss him so much," Enjolras said hoarsely. 

Combeferre couldn't remember ever hearing him sound so shattered, and it _hurt_. He knew Courfeyrac felt the same, because when he caught his eye again all he saw was pain. 

They stood that way for a long time, holding Enjolras close and letting him cry. Eventually his harsher sobs subsided, but his breathing was still unsteady and he didn't move away from either of them. Combeferre couldn't recall him ever allowing himself this amount of comfort. It was one of the reasons he knew just how very broken Enjolras must feel. 

Courfeyrac looked up and caught his eye again, nodding in the direction of the living room. Combeferre nodded back; he knew it was a good idea to get Enjolras out of the room that had primarily been Grantaire's. Not to mention that the rain had grown heavier and it was blowing in through the open window with a cold breeze. 

Courfeyrac slipped his arm around Enjolras' waist and pulled him gently from Combeferre's arms. “Come on, love,” he murmured, nuzzling against Enjolras' head. “Let's go sit down and get you warmed up.” 

Enjolras didn't respond, but he gave no resistance, leaning against him and letting him lead him out of the room. 

Combeferre drew in a shaky breath and exhaled slowly as he ran a hand over his face. As he shut the window he noticed the photo that Enjolras had been clutching on the floor; he must have dropped it when Combeferre hugged him. He picked it up and smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper as he crossed the room. 

It was heartbreaking. 

Enjolras in one corner of the ratty old couch in the back room of the Musain, papers strewn about him, a warm, shy smile on his face as he looked at Grantaire. Grantaire, who was sprawled out next to him, one foot hooked around Enjolras' ankle, fingers tangled in his blonde curls, the other hand reaching out to pluck a paper from his lap. And his smile was the one he reserved solely for Enjolras...the smile that wasn't a bitter or mocking smirk, but a genuine one. Full of love and admiration and happiness. 

Combeferre blinked back tears and set it carefully on the desk. He took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, knowing that what Enjolras needed now more than anything was strength and comfort and patience. They'd have to go through the things in the room eventually, but for the moment the reminders were too painful. He shut off the lights and pulled the door shut behind him, and joined them in the living room. 

~*~*~ 

Courfeyrac looked up when he heard Combeferre’s footsteps. Enjolras was curled tightly into his side, head resting against his shoulder. He wasn’t crying anymore but he hadn’t said anything else either. Courfeyrac pressed another kiss to the top of Enjolras’ head and continued running his fingers back and forth over his shoulder. 

Enjolras hadn’t been quite himself ever since Grantaire had died, and Courfeyrac had been both dreading and wanting this day to happen for a while. Cutting off his heart and letting himself become numb to what had happened was something Courfeyrac could understand. But he hadn’t expected it to last this long. Then again, he should’ve known Enjolras would be as stubborn about this as he was everything else. 

It hurt terribly to see Enjolras this way. They had all been friends since childhood, and while Enjolras was technically closer with Combeferre, the three of them had always stuck together. He’d been with Combeferre when they had found out about Grantaire, and nothing had been more important than getting to Enjolras. It wasn’t a night he liked to think about. 

Combeferre sat down on the other side of Enjolras and wrapped an arm around him, nestling the blonde between the two of them. He met Combeferre’s eyes over Enjolras head and wondered what they should do next. Pushing Enjolras was usually the worst way to get him to open up about anything, but Courfeyrac wondered if this time, he might need it. 

“What happened tonight, E?” he asked softly. 

Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut and pushed a little closer to Combeferre. Courfeyrac would’ve been discouraged but Combeferre had always been Enjolras’ refuge. And a few moments later, he reached out and gripped Courfeyrac’s hand. Sighing softly, he shook his head and finally met their eyes. 

The sadness in his eyes was like punch to the gut and Courfeyrac had to stop himself from reaching out to pull Enjolras close again. It broke his heart to see him hurting so much. 

Enjolras looked away again, studying the blanket Courfeyrac had pulled around him earlier in an attempt to warm him up. 

“I kissed him,” he said softly, voice hoarse from crying. 

Courfeyrac looked up sharply and caught Combeferre’s gaze. In the back of his mind, he had been expecting this for a while, and he had a feeling that Combeferre had too. They had talked about it briefly one evening, because they had seen the way Enjolras was around Henri. Slowly letting his guard down and getting closer to the other man. They would’ve been thrilled to see him moving on, except he had never grieved or gotten over Grantaire. They both knew that there was no way he could move on without doing both first. 

“Henri?” 

Enjolras nodded. 

That explained why Henri had texted them earlier. Courfeyrac wondered what had happened after the kiss. 

“Do you like him?” 

Enjolras started to nod but then shook his head and then squeezed his eyes shut in frustration again. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter because…he kissed me back and put his arms around me and I…I couldn’t do it. He’s not…he’s not…who I want him to be…” he finished, voice breaking a little. He dropped his face back down against Courfeyrac’s shoulder and breathed shakily. 

“I just…I just want him back,” Enjolras said softly. “I know it’s impossible. I know it’s been two years, but I just keep…I just keep waiting to wake up and find out that this is all a nightmare.” He hid his face more fully in Courfeyrac’s shoulder. 

He had never sounded so… _small_ , and it tore at Courfeyrac’s heart. He wrapped his arms tightly around Enjolras and held him close, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt tears start to threaten. Combeferre reached out and pressed a hand to his forearm gently. Their eyes met again and Courfeyrac saw the same sort of sadness in his expression. 

They both held onto Enjolras tightly when he started to cry again. Courfeyrac was half tempted to pull the blanket over their heads and hide them all away from the world for a while, like they had done when they were kids. 

The rain outside turned steadily into a thunderstorm. The three of them sat together for a long time, Courfeyrac and Combeferre holding on tightly as their friend fell apart in their arms. 

~*~*~ 

Courfeyrac was woken up by the insistent buzzing of his phone in his pocket. He glanced at Enjolras and Combeferre – both were still sleeping – and carefully untangled himself from the two of them, making sure Enjolras was still tucked closely next to his best friend. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he stood up and fished his phone out of his jeans to see who was calling. 

_Jehan._

“Shit,” he muttered. Quickly, he slipped outside into the hallway and answered. “Babe, hi...I'm so sorry I didn't call sooner.” They’d been planning on a late movie or dancing tonight, but with everything happening with Enjolras it had slipped his mind. 

“Hmm, so what's up?” 

He didn't sound angry, but maybe a little annoyed. Courfeyrac was grateful that Jehan knew him so well and knew that he wouldn't stand him up without a really good reason. It had taken a while, but they trusted one another completely now. Their relationship had become something solid and secure and perfect that Courfeyrac wouldn't trade for anything. 

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac answered sadly. He leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes. “He’s finally grieving. He’s...not good. I’ve never seen him so... _sad_.” 

“Oh god,” Jehan murmured, voice instantly one of complete concern. “Is ‘Ferre there with you?” 

“Yeah. I...shit, Jehan...he's a mess. He let us hold him. He’s...crying. _Enjolras_.” His voice wobbled a little, and he suddenly wished Jehan were there too; he’d give anything to feel his arms around him for a little while. He fully intended to do whatever he needed to help Enjolras through this, but it hurt so much to see him this way. Not to mention that it made him miss Grantaire too. 

Jehan made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and Courfeyrac knew that he was thinking the same thing. “I know how difficult this has to be, Courf. Take as much time as you need, as _he_ needs.” 

Courfeyrac drew in a shaky breath. “Thanks. I just…it’s hard to see him this way. And I know he needs this…he needs to find a way to let go.” 

“No one can do that but Enjolras, but he needs the two of you to be there for him.” 

“I know. And the sad thing is, I think he was trying.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He kissed Henri tonight.” 

Jehan inhaled sharply. “He’s not ready.” It wasn’t an admonishment, it was simply a statement of fact. 

Courfeyrac nodded. “I know. And that’s what happened.” 

“Courf, I know he’s not good at dealing with his feelings, but he trusts you both more than anyone. And he _depends_ on you both more than he’d ever admit.” 

They were both quiet for a few moments, lost in thought, comforted by the sound of one another’s breathing. “Jehan, I wish…” 

“Me too,” Jehan answered quickly, voice a little rough. “I miss him.” 

Courfeyrac blinked back tears and wished there was a way to climb through the phone to hug Jehan. They all missed Grantaire, but other than Enjolras, it was probably Jehan that felt his absence most acutely. They’d been friends for a long time and had been through a lot together. 

Sighing, Courfeyrac rubbed a hand over his face and stepped away from the wall. “I should get back inside and see if they’ve woken up.” 

Jehan cleared his throat. “Okay. Give Enjolras my love, and call me when you can.” 

“I will. I love you,” he murmured. 

“I love you too, Courf.” 

Courfeyrac smiled, still thrilled every time Jehan said that. He hung up and took a deep breath. When he went back inside, Enjolras was still asleep, but Combeferre had woken up. Courfeyrac joined them on the couch again and brushed a stray curl away from Enjolras’ face. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Jehan called…I was supposed to meet him after we had dinner tonight.” 

Combeferre nodded. “Speaking of dinner…since we missed it, are you hungry?” 

“Starving.” 

“I’ll go and get us something. I doubt he’ll want to eat anything, but at least we’ll have some food here. I’m pretty sure the only thing he has is granola bars and candy.” 

Courfeyrac smiled fondly at their sleeping friend and slipped an arm around him again. “Good idea.” 

Combeferre stood up slowly, careful not to wake Enjolras, and stretched his arms over his head. Enjolras stirred a little, but just moved closer to Courfeyrac. 

“Chinese okay?” 

“Mmm-hmm.” 

Combeferre looked at them both for a few moments and then squeezed Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Thanks for being here Courf.” 

Courfeyrac looked up and smiled warmly at him. He reached up and covered Combeferre’s hand with his own. “Nowhere else I’d be, ‘Ferre.” 

As Combeferre left, Courfeyrac dropped his head down against the top of Enjolras’ head and held him close. He knew what Jehan had said was true – that to an extent, Enjolras had to get through this on his own. But he would do whatever he could to help him through it. 

~*~*~ 

It wasn’t too long after Combeferre left that Enjolras woke up. He sat up a little, rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, succeeding in further messing up his curls. Courfeyrac kept a hand on his back, rubbing soothingly. When he leaned back, he settled himself against his side again, and Courfeyrac kept an arm around him. 

“Where’s ‘Ferre?” he murmured. 

“He went to get food. Are you hungry?” 

Enjolras shook his head. 

“Do you want something to drink?” 

He shook his head again. “No. Thanks, Courf…” 

Courfeyrac knew he wasn’t talking about the offer of food or drink. He pressed a kiss to the side of Enjolras’ head. The fact that he didn’t protest was just one of the things that told him how upset he was. Courfeyrac had always been very physically affectionate with all of his friends – hugs, linking arms, kisses on the cheek or hair. Enjolras was always shrugging him off or glaring at him for all of it. Now though, he didn’t push him away…in fact, he was actively leaning into Courfeyrac’s embrace. And Courfeyrac knew that he needed the comfort. 

They sat together in silence for a while; Courfeyrac knew better than to push him to talk. But, for once, he didn’t seem to need it anyway. 

“You know what the last thing I ever said to him was? ‘Don’t buy cigarettes.’” His voice was shaky, and full of regret. “That was it. He was trying to quit – that was my suggestion of course,” he added bitterly. “I knew he was still smoking though…when he drank, when he painted. Just not as much as he had. So he was going out to…to get groceries,” he went on, voice starting to waver. “And I knew he’d pick up cigarettes because I wasn’t with him…so I told him not to…buy them…and…” 

He broke off on a sob and Courfeyrac was quick to pull him closer and hold him tightly. Enjolras clung to him and cried into his chest, hands gripping tightly to Courfeyrac’s shirt. Courfeyrac felt tears flood his eyes and he pressed his hand to the back of Enjolras’ neck. 

“I should’ve…I should’ve told him that I loved him,” Enjolras cried. 

“Shhh…E…” He held Enjolras tightly and let him cry, knowing that he had been repressing these tears and this grief and regret for two long years. He cried with him because his heart broke for Enjolras and because it wasn’t fair. Grantaire had been Enjolras’ first and only love. The first time he had opened his heart and fallen in love, and it had taken _so_ much for him to do it. 

“I didn’t tell him that I loved him enough. Courf, what if…what if he didn’t know?” Enjolras asked very softly. 

Courfeyrac pulled back a little and gripped Enjolras’ shoulders, waiting for him to meet his eyes. It made his heart ache to see Enjolras looking so lost, to see his face streaked with tears, his eyes reddened and damp. 

“He knew,” Courfeyrac said, voice steady. 

“But…” 

Courfeyrac shook his head and gripped the back of Enjolras’ neck. “No, Enjolras. He knew. He was never happier than when he was with you. He positively glowed anytime you smiled at him. He knew, E. I _promise_ you that he did.” 

Enjolras bit his lower lip and met Courfeyrac’s eyes steadily. Courfeyrac could practically read the thoughts running through his eyes. He wanted to argue – his stubbornness wouldn’t permit anything else – but he also looked hopeful… _desperately_ hopeful. He wanted to believe Courfeyrac’s words, but his grief was telling him otherwise. 

Courfeyrac smiled softly and pulled him closer, fingers moving absently through his curls. Enjolras laid his head on his shoulder and drew in a shaky breath. Courfeyrac knew it would take a while for him to stop feeling so much regret. 

“I miss him so much,” Enjolras said softly. 

Courfeyrac pressed a kiss to the side of his head and hugged him tightly. “I know you do,” he murmured. “I miss him too.” 

Courfeyrac didn’t let him go as they slumped back down on the couch and pulled the blanket back around them both. Enjolras stayed surprisingly close, head tucked beneath Courfeyrac’s chin, arms around his waist. They stayed there until Combeferre came back, and Courfeyrac hoped more than anything that he had helped Enjolras find a way to start healing. 

~*~*~ 

Combeferre called Eponine on the way back from picking up the takeout. It wasn’t a long walk, but he went slowly enough to give himself time to call her. He felt a little bit selfish for it, but he really wanted to hear her voice. 

“Must have been a long dinner,” Eponine quipped as she answered the phone. Combeferre pictured her tucking her hair behind her ear and curling up in the corner of their couch, flipping aimlessly through television channels. As someone who had grown up with very little, she liked the idea of readily-available amusement more than she liked any actual shows. 

Combeferre sighed. “We didn’t actually have dinner.” 

“Oh? Wild night out then?” 

He could hear the smile in her voice and couldn’t help responding to it with a small one of his own, but it faded quickly. “No,” he responded quietly. 

“What’s the matter?” She picked up on the change in his tone immediately. 

“It’s Enjolras. He finally…broke.” It hurt to _say_ , and picturing the heartbreak that had been written all over his friend’s face was even worse. 

She sucked in a sharp breath. “You mean…Grantaire?” 

“Yes.” 

He shifted the phone to his other ear, careful not to drop the bag of food. “I went out to get some food, but Courf and I are with him. We’re going to stay for a little while.” 

“Stay as long as he needs. I can only imagine…” she trailed off, sadly. He knew she was concerned for Enjolras, but that it also brought up her own painful memories and thoughts. She and Grantaire had been close, and Combeferre knew how much she missed him. 

“Ferre?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Love you.” 

He drew in a deep breath and smiled a little. “I love you too.” It had taken quite a lot of time and effort – especially on Combeferre’s part – for them to reach this level of their relationship. But Combeferre wouldn’t trade it or her for anything. 

When he got back, he found Enjolras wrapped up in Courfeyrac’s arms on the couch. They were both awake, they both had reddened eyes as if they’d been crying, and Combeferre couldn’t decide if Enjolras seemed better or worse. But he smiled softly at the picture they made, because he was grateful that Enjolras was allowing them to comfort him. He hadn’t exactly pushed either of them away since Grantaire’s death, but he’d quietly rebuffed any attempts to talk. 

“I got a ton of Chinese food.” 

Courfeyrac sat up a little, arm still around Enjolras’ shoulders. “I’m starved.” 

“Enjolras, do you want anything?” 

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.” 

Combeferre hadn’t expected him to want anything, but he’d gotten enough that he could eat something later if he wanted. 

Courfeyrac turned on the television for background noise, but they ate in relative silence. Enjolras stayed on the couch between them, legs curled up beneath him, moving only occasionally to take a sip of the water Combeferre had gotten for him. 

“You guys don’t have to stay here,” Enjolras murmured. They’d both just settled back on the couch with him after putting the leftovers in the fridge and getting more to drink. 

“Don’t do that,” Combeferre responded quietly. 

“Do what?” 

“Pretend like you’re okay,” Courfeyrac answered. “You’re not and it’s fine that you’re not, but don’t pretend that you are.” 

Combeferre nodded at him gratefully. “We’ll stay as long as you need,” he added. 

He knew that his best friend had never been good at being vulnerable or admitting when he needed help and this was no exception. The difference was Combeferre and Courfeyrac usually ended up backing off and letting him deal with things on his own, trusting him to come to one of them if and when he truly needed it. But this wasn’t the same. Showing his broken heart wasn’t easy and Combeferre knew that if they hadn’t found him the way they had tonight, he might have never asked for comfort. 

Enjolras sighed and settled back into the couch cushions again. Combeferre reached over and squeezed his hand, smiling a little when Enjolras squeezed back and dropped his head down onto his shoulder. He knew just how much Enjolras was hurting by these simple actions and by the fact that he didn’t argue further. Not for the first time, he thought about how unfair it was that Enjolras had lost Grantaire. 

He could still remember the night Enjolras had come to his apartment, frantic and completely out-of-sorts because he’d just realized the feelings he had for Grantaire. 

_I…’Ferre, I think…I think I’m in love with him._

He’d been scared in a way he’d never been before. Facing down authority, questioning leadership, supporting and leading causes to the point of obsession were easy for him. But falling in love had been terrifying. Although, despite his fear he’d ended up facing it down like anything else. And Grantaire had been good for him. They’d been good for each other, balancing each other out. But above all, Enjolras had been so happy with him. Combeferre hated that he’d had that happiness ripped away. 

“I should talk to Henri at some point,” Enjolras said quietly a few minutes later. “I didn’t really tell him anything…I just apologized and said I had to leave and a few other things I don’t remember. I probably wasn’t making much sense. It…it all hit me at once and I didn’t know what else to do. I just had to get away from him.” 

His voice trembled a little bit and Combeferre squeezed his hand again. 

“He texted us,” Courfeyrac said. “Told us to find you. He didn’t say anything else, but he knew something was wrong.” 

“You don’t have to tell him anything you’re not ready to talk about,” Combeferre murmured. 

“I know,” he answered, voice a little muffled as he turned closer into his shoulder. “But I want him to know…” 

He was quiet for a while and Combeferre wasn’t sure if he’d fallen asleep or not until he spoke again. 

“I could’ve dealt with this sooner,” he said very softly. “But whenever I let myself think about him, I just…it felt like someone was tearing me apart. Slowly. Piece by piece. And it…it hurt _so_ much. So I did my best to become numb to everything. Because if I let myself think about him, if I tried to deal with it, I just felt like everything was falling apart, like _I_ was falling apart, and I didn’t know how to manage it.” 

His voice hadn’t wavered, but there were tears on his cheeks again and it made Combeferre’s heart ache. 

“I still don’t know how to manage it.” 

Courfeyrac moved closer and wrapped both of his arms around Enjolras; Combeferre still had an arm around him and was holding his hand. And they stayed that way for a long time, holding him close and offering what comfort they could. He cried quietly this time, body trembling a little, tears slipping slowly down his cheeks, eyes full of pain and loss and everything he’d bottled up for two long years. 

Neither of them bothered with the empty words that they knew wouldn’t be true…at least not yet. They didn’t tell him that things would be okay or that the pain would go away or that he’d get over it. Because even if he might eventually move on, the loss would always be there. 

Eventually he fell asleep, exhausted from grief. Combeferre switched off the TV and the light he could reach. Courfeyrac got up to turn off the other lights, pulled the coffee table closer so they could prop their feet up and then sat back down. He pulled the blanket over the three of them and settled comfortably against Enjolras. 

Combeferre watched them both for a few minutes, the light of the street lights filtering in through the windows in a dim glow. Once more he felt his heart ache when he looked at Enjolras, and he hoped that sleep would bring him at least a temporary peace. He pressed a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead and then laid his cheek against the top of his head before falling asleep. 

~*~*~ 

They both stayed for the whole weekend. Enjolras wasn’t quite sure what to do with the constant flow of company – even if it was just his two best friends – but they provided a sense of comfort that he found himself desperately grateful for. 

A part of him wanted to tell them to leave sometimes, because this wasn’t who he was. He dealt with things alone; he always had. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t rely on his friends for certain things or appreciate their help and concern, but when it came to his feelings or anything remotely personal, he had certain walls in place that he just didn’t want anyone crossing. 

The only person who ever had was Grantaire. 

The grief had hit him hard and fast. It had crashed over him like a tidal wave…intense, powerful and consuming. For a while, he’d managed to convince himself that maybe by letting himself become numb to it that he would never have to deal with the loss. Maybe he would just be numb for the rest of his life. 

But then Henri had started to make his pulse speed up a little now and then. He’d give Enjolras a smile and a wave and Enjolras would find himself smiling back. In another time and place, it would’ve been thrilling. But one kiss had ripped the carefully applied bandage off of his heart quickly and completely. It had torn that bandage to shreds and left him with nothing to keep the pieces of his heart together. 

He couldn’t remember much more than the fumbling, senseless apology he’d left Henri with, frantic to get away from him. He’d rushed home through the rain, desperate for one thing: Grantaire’s room. 

It hadn’t always been _Grantaire’s_ room, seeing as it had technically been _Enjolras’_ apartment. But when he’d moved in, he’d taken up space in half of the second bedroom, humming and smoking while he painted. The other half had been Enjolras’ desk and bookshelves, but working in the same room as Grantaire had proved to be impossible. He’d told him so more than once, and Grantaire, being who he was, had slunk away each time to retreat to their living room or elsewhere and forego the artistic outlet that brought him peace. Anything to keep Enjolras happy. But it had only happened three times before Enjolras hadn’t been able to stand it. He’d yanked the laptop cord from the wall, gathered it, the computer and several books to take into the kitchen where he’d dumped them unceremoniously onto the table. He’d plugged in the laptop, reopened the files he was working on and made sure he had the books he needed. Then he’d marched to the fire escape outside of their living room, threw open the window and leaned out to look at Grantaire steadily, who was smoking and staring at him. 

_“You can use the room to paint now.”_

His voice had been short and to the point, but Grantaire’s eyes had widened curiously. He’d spun around on his heel and gone back into the kitchen to work; and it wasn’t until a few hours later that he’d felt hands settle gently on his shoulders, lips against the side of his neck as they’d murmured his name. _“Thank you.”_ Painting had been Grantaire’s constant and Enjolras had hated the thought of taking it away from him just because he couldn’t work in the same room. From then on, Grantaire had used the spare bedroom to paint and Enjolras had simply used one of the walls to house some of his books. He’d set up his every day essentials and computer in the kitchen. They’d never cooked much anyway. 

Since his death, Enjolras hadn’t exactly shut and locked the door – in fact he’d left the door open all the time – but he never went inside. But after leaving Henri, he’d rushed home and gone immediately to Grantaire’s room. 

There were still half-finished paintings propped up along the wall, but that hadn’t been what he’d wanted. Frantic, he’d torn through the closet and drawers of the desk, flipping through notebooks and sketchbooks and painting supplies and boxes of photos until he’d found the one he wanted. They’d never had a chance to put them into an album, but they had been a gift from Jehan. Photos of the two of them from random moments over the course of a year. He’d taken pictures of all of their friends, but Enjolras had been especially touched by the gift – for his birthday – which had included a framed photo as well as a box full of others. The framed one had them smiling at the camera, and it was on a shelf in Enjolras’ bookcase. But there were others he wanted more…candid shots, everyday moments, the two of them smiling _at one another_. 

But when he’d found the box he hadn’t been able to get past the first one without finally breaking down. Grantaire smiling at him warmly, Enjolras looking shy, annoyed and _in love_. He’d clutched the photo in his hand and watched the images blur as tears flooded his eyes. He’d been unable to breathe or stop the pain or gain any semblance of control over his emotions. He’d opened the window to try and catch his breath, clear his head, but nothing worked. So in the end he’d just leaned against the wall by the window and stared at the photo and cried until Combeferre had found him. 

He was thankful for Combeferre and Courfeyrac in a way that he’d never been before. It wasn’t that they hadn’t always been close or that Enjolras had ever thought that they wouldn’t help him through this. It was just that he hadn’t really thought that he could ever fall apart so completely, and having them both there with him had been infinitely comforting. What he was most grateful for was that they were a comfort but they weren't pushing him in any way. Despite how he'd broken down and the amount of crying he'd done since they'd found him, he wasn't usually an overly emotional person when it came to personal feelings. Being passionate about causes and worldly issues was another matter. But expressing such feelings outwardly in a grand fashion just wasn't who he was. Good, bad, excited, disappointed...it didn't matter. That was one of the reasons that the way he felt now...the fact that he'd broken down in tears more than he ever had in his life...it was so draining. 

Combeferre had always been a steady presence in his life and that was no different now. He knew exactly what Enjolras needed when - or oftentimes before - he needed it. And so he listened when Enjolras tried to talk about Grantaire and how he'd let himself be numb to the loss for two years. It was difficult to discuss and the words didn't come easily or sometimes even at all, and Combeferre understood that and would sit with him in silence for as long as he needed. Courfeyrac was, on the other hand, good for distraction. Normally, Enjolras faced problems head on and didn't need or want any distractions, but he found that he needed one now, even if for only a few minutes. Courfeyrac was also good at hugs...and it spoke to the level of his grief that he accepted them without reserve or any desire to push him away. 

Through it all though, neither of them were smothering him; they knew that he needed comforted but he also just needed to be left alone occasionally. He appreciated that more than he could say. 

It wasn’t just grief he was feeling for the first time in two years, but he was also allowing himself to remember, to think about their relationship, to think about Grantaire. And thinking about Grantaire forced him to think about what Grantaire would do or say if he could see him now. 

He knew that Grantaire would’ve been happy with him for accepting that comfort. He would have hated that Enjolras was so upset…both because he never liked to see him that way but also because he wouldn’t have thought he deserved it. He could almost hear him. 

_“Why are you crying over me, Apollo? Save your tears for something more worthy.”_

And Enjolras had always hated his lacking self-esteem, but he was thankful for the knowledge that their relationship had helped curb the worst of it. He just wished that he had done more to show Grantaire how important he was to him. How very much he loved him. 

Sighing, he shut his eyes and leaned back against the corner of the couch, pulling his knees up towards his chest and pulling the blanket more closely around him. There was a big part of him that was frowning over the fact that he’d spent a good portion of the weekend holed up on the couch, but for now he wasn’t listening to that practical, no-nonsense side of himself. 

“Do you want to pick where we order dinner from?” 

He looked up at Courfeyrac who was smiling warmly at him and shuffling through a handful of takeout menus. He shook his head. “Wherever is fine.” 

“Hmm, so pizza from that place Joly wanted to call the health department about?” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes and shook his head again, the smallest of smiles turning up the corner of his mouth. “No pizza. Especially not from there.” 

Courfeyrac smiled brightly at him in response and nodded. “No pizza it is.” Apparently, it hadn’t mattered what Enjolras had wanted, because as he walked away he went immediately to the menu for the small Italian place down the street. He’d probably just wanted to gain a smile from Enjolras. 

As Courfeyrac perused the menu, Combeferre sat down next to Enjolras on the couch and smiled softly at him as he looked up from his phone. “Eponine says hi,” he murmured, “And she wants you to know that if you need anything to let her know. I think Jehan told Courfeyrac the same earlier.” 

Enjolras nodded and smiled back at Combeferre, although it faded quickly as he thought of them and his other friends. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see them, he just…couldn’t. Not yet. 

“Thank them for me?” he asked softly. “I don’t think I can…I’m not ready to face anyone else right now.” 

Combeferre nodded and reached out to squeeze his knee. “I know, and it’s okay…you don’t have to.” 

They stayed for the night again, the three of them curled up on the couch watching movies. They hadn’t spent so much time together since high school, but it was just what Enjolras needed. 

He would have been happy to have them stay a while longer, but the next day he walked past Grantaire’s room on the way to his own and he opened the door. He knew Combeferre had closed it the first night he’d found him to save him from any reminders, but he didn’t like to have it shut; he never had. He stopped and just leaned against the side of the doorway for a while, looking inside without actually crossing the threshold. Most of the paintings against the far wall were finished, some propped up next to the bookcase were not. He thought about how they should be hanging up in other parts of the apartment or that some of their friends should have them. The boxes of photos were still spilling across the floor from when he’d been searching frantically. It bothered him to see them that way…he wanted them to be organized and in an album. The idea of shoving them back into shoeboxes and hiding them in the closet was a painful one. 

He knew he had to find a way to move on, but he didn’t _ever_ want to forget. The first thing he had to do was sort through everything in this room. No matter how much it hurt, he knew that it would also help him heal. And he knew that he had to do it alone. 

Sighing, he shut his eyes and leaned his head against the door frame. A memory pricked at his brain, popping up unbidden, sharp and sweet against his heart. 

He'd stood in this exact spot, watching as Grantaire had painted. He’d always been messy, but it had never bothered Enjolras as long as he’d kept the paint far away from his books. But this time there had been paint everywhere, nearly as much on the drop cloth and Grantaire’s hands as on his canvas. Watching him paint had been something Enjolras had always loved, although he’d rarely admitted it. Even before they’d gotten together, he’d often found himself distracted watching Grantaire sketch while their group of friends sat together at a bar or coffee shop or someone’s apartment. But this particular memory jumped out because he remembered it so vividly. Grantaire in loose-fitting jeans, shirtless, barefoot, humming the way he always did when he painted, cigarette hanging from his lips as he’d worked bright colors across the canvas. Enjolras had been entranced, and he hadn’t been able to watch for too long before crossing the room, spinning him around and kissing him hard. They’d ended up having hot, messy, incredible sex on the floor. They’d also ended up covered in paint. Grantaire had grinned brightly at him and traced lines of red and black across his chest with his fingers. Enjolras had still found flecks of paint on his skin and in his hair for days later. 

“Enjolras? Are you okay?” 

Startled, he opened his eyes at the sound of Combeferre’s voice and smiled a little as he shook his head. He wondered if remembering would always be like this – with being brought back to reality sharply and painfully. 

“No, but…I don’t want to put him out of my mind anymore. For the past two years I’ve been trying so hard to not think of him or remember things from when we were together. Now, I…I _want_ to remember. It’s just…difficult,” he said softly. 

Combeferre nodded, eyes full of sympathy, and reached out to squeeze Enjolras’ upper arm. Enjolras covered his hand with his own and kept it there. He glanced into Grantaire’s room again, knowing that if he shut his eyes again there would be another memory waiting for him. Taking a deep breath he turned back to face his best friend and squeezed his hand a little more tightly. 

“I need to go through his things,” he said quietly. 

Combeferre nodded in agreement. “We can help.” 

Enjolras shook his head. “No, ‘Ferre. I…I have to do it by myself.” 

Briefly, he looked like he wanted to argue and Enjolras knew that was because he cared and wanted to be here if he needed him, but understanding settled over his features quickly. 

“You’ll call one of us though if…” 

“If I fall apart?” he asked, a sad smile on his face. The fact that he wasn’t completely joking and Combeferre knew it made him have to look away. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes over tears that threatened to fall. 

Combeferre reached out to squeeze his other shoulder and Enjolras stepped forward automatically for a hug. He held on tightly and managed to keep the tears at bay. He was sure he’d have plenty to shed later. 

~*~*~ 

Courfeyrac hugged him firmly before he left, arms tight around his back, providing a level of comfort that Enjolras hoped stayed with him for a while longer. “You know you can call me anytime, right? Or send a text? Or both?” 

Enjolras nodded and pulled away with a smile. 

“I don't have to leave yet,” Courfeyrac went on. He had both hands on Enjolras’ shoulders now, his eyes full of a determined sort of concern. “I can stay longer or I can come back in a few hours if you want or--” 

“Courf,” he interrupted softly. Courfeyrac ceased his rambling and met his eyes again. “I need to do this--” 

“Alone, I know.” He exhaled slowly and nodded. His eyes were more serious than worried now and Enjolras knew that he really did understand. 

“You must be anxious to see Jehan again anyway,” Enjolras murmured, forcing a brighter smile. The depth of concern and love he read in Courfeyrac’s expression wasn't exactly surprising, but it was something he’d sort of just been reminded of, and it was somewhat overwhelming to remember that he had such amazing friends. 

Courfeyrac smiled softly. “I'm always anxious to see Jehan.” He paused and his eyes were suddenly serious again. “But I mean it, Enjolras. Anything you need, at any time...if I find out you hesitated to call me or Combeferre or whoever...” 

Enjolras nodded. “I _will_ call you,” he promised. For as much as he knew he had to do this on his own, he was a little surprised by how much he meant the words. He knew now that it was okay if he had to lean on them to get through this. 

Courfeyrac studied him warily for a few more moments, but then he nodded and drew him in quickly and closely for another hug. He pressed a kiss to his temple. “I love you, E.” 

Enjolras could only nod in response as he swallowed over the lump in his throat. Courfeyrac pulled away with a warm smile, squeezed his hand and left. It took a good deal of Enjolras’ strength to not open the door and call him back inside. Instead he leaned back against the door and shut his eyes. 

When he opened them Combeferre was in front of him, watching him steadily with a sad sort of worry in his eyes. But he didn’t ask the question that Enjolras didn’t know how to answer: _are you sure you want me to leave?_ He was grateful for that, because Enjolras _wasn’t_ sure. When Combeferre left, the apartment would be quiet and empty. It would leave him alone with his thoughts and memories, and he still didn’t know if he’d be able to deal with either. 

But Combeferre knew that he had to do this by himself; he understood what Enjolras needed, just like he always did. 

“I’m going to call you tomorrow afternoon,” Combeferre said softly. “If you don’t answer, I’m going to come over.” 

The part of Enjolras that was always independent and strong and who never answered to anyone wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Because he had a feeling that by tomorrow afternoon he’d want nothing more than to hear Combeferre’s voice. He surprised himself again by stepping forward first to hug Combeferre and he rested his chin against his shoulder with a sigh. 

Enjolras didn’t quite know how to thank him. He hoped that if their situations had been reversed that he would’ve provided Combeferre with the same level of comfort that he had done for him. He knew that he wasn’t the best person at showing those he cared about just how important they were to him. But Combeferre knew that, and he had always known how to read between the lines where Enjolras was concerned. It was one of the reasons they were such good friends. 

Not wanting to lose his resolve, Enjolras eventually forced himself to pull away from the comforting embrace and step back. But he suddenly felt a little panicked. 

“Enjolras?” 

“Hmm?” 

“It isn’t a race,” he said quietly. “And you don’t have a deadline. If you can only do a little bit at a time then that’s all you can do.” His voice was calm and steady, and he stepped closer again, reaching out to grip both of Enjolras’ shoulders. “You didn’t fall in love with him in one day. You’re not going to get over him in one either.” 

His words were patient and kind – just like Combeferre himself – and they were exactly what Enjolras needed to hear. Because on some level, he had intended to approach this the same way he approached everything: with fierce determination and the expectation that he succeed quickly and concisely. And when it came to Grantaire’s _things_ , maybe it would still work. He knew that’s not what Combeferre was talking about though. 

Packing away clothes, going through paintings and photos and mementos…it would be difficult, but he knew he could do it. What he still wasn’t sure he’d be able to do was deal with the feelings those items would bring. And most importantly…he had no idea how he was going to ever move on. 

Enjolras met Combeferre’s eyes with a brave smile and nodded. It wasn’t bravado but determination, and underneath that fear and heartbreak. He knew Combeferre would see it all. 

“Remember,” Combeferre said as he slipped into his jacket. “I’ll be calling tomorrow afternoon.” He gripped Enjolras’ shoulder and met his eyes with a look that left no room for argument. 

Enjolras nodded. “I’ll answer. I promise.” 

Combeferre looked at him steadily for a few more moments before squeezing his shoulder once more. And then he was gone. And Enjolras was alone. 


	2. Chapter 2

He stood just inside the doorway for a good fifteen minutes, staring vacantly at the room, trying not to think too much and wondering where to start. The practical side of him wanted to organize things quickly and concisely. He’d go step by step around the room until everything was divided into proper boxes. Paintings to keep, paintings for his friends, photos into albums, sketchbooks stored in the desk, art supplies to the local community college. It would be _easy_ , but it wouldn’t help anything. 

Sighing, he leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes for a few more minutes. He breathed deeply and remembered what Combeferre had said…that he didn’t have a deadline. As difficult as it would be, he needed to take this slowly. He’d done his best to push all thoughts of Grantaire out of his mind for two years, and that wasn’t what he wanted anymore. He wanted to remember…milestones and small moments and everything in between. He wanted to remember all of it…whether it only ended up making him miss Grantaire more or if it helped to heal his heart. 

Not feeling brave enough to look at the photos yet, he started with the paintings. There were a few unfinished ones propped up against the wall, but even more finished in the closet. He’d be the first to admit he knew very little when it came to art, but he knew that Grantaire’s paintings were good. But more importantly, they were windows into his heart and mind. He may not be the best judge or interpreter of art in general, but with Grantaire’s paintings he knew what he must have been feeling when he painted each one. Some were angry, some happy, many were sad. 

Despite the fact that Grantaire often told Enjolras what a good subject he’d be for artwork, there were only three paintings of him. But then Enjolras remembered Grantaire telling him that he liked to sketch him better. Enjolras would never stay still enough in one spot long enough for Grantaire to paint him. But many a time Grantaire would watch him unnoticed, sketching him while he worked or giving a speech or at a rally. Or moments at home when he’d fall asleep in front of his laptop or with a book in his hands or simply curled into Grantaire’s side. 

_“I think I could still sketch you if I was blindfolded. But…I’d rather look at you.”_

Enjolras was startled by how clearly he could hear the words in his head, almost as if Grantaire were there with him. Words that would have made him blush and roll his eyes even if he secretly liked the compliment, now made his heart ache sharply, and he had to blink away tears before he moved on to the next canvas. He still wasn’t sure if it was harder to remember or to forget. 

The next painting he uncovered took his breath away as memories came flooding back. He sank down to the floor with the canvas in his hands and just stared at it. It was the first painting Grantaire had ever shown him. They’d still been in college and they hadn’t even gotten together yet. There had been plenty of lingering glances and confusing feelings, but Enjolras hadn’t yet figured out what he’d wanted and Grantaire hadn’t had enough confidence to make the first move. 

He’d been at Grantaire’s apartment for some reason he couldn’t quite remember and they’d been arguing about something they always argued about – politics. But Enjolras had given up after a while, tired of always fighting with Grantaire and inevitably saying something he ended up regretting. If Grantaire had been good at anything it had been getting Enjolras to lose his temper. 

The canvas had caught his attention when Grantaire had gone into the kitchen to get something to drink. He didn’t usually snoop around in his friends’ apartments, but it had been simply sitting on an easel near the window, turned halfway away from his line of sight. And of course he’d known that Grantaire was an art student and that he painted, but he’d never actually seen any of his finished work. He had noticed him sketching here and there, but he’d never been brave enough to ask to see any of it. He’d been undeniably curious. 

So he’d crossed the room before he could talk himself out of it and gently turned the easel around so he could see what it held. Simply put – it was beautiful. It was Paris at night, a small side street with a few cafés with a few lazy patrons at their tables, some strolling couples hand in hand across the old cobblestones. The scene itself was simple enough, but the way it was painted had Enjolras mesmerized. The dark blues of the evening, the lights of the building windows, the glow of Paris in the background. 

He’d spun around at the sound of Grantaire clearing his throat. He’d been blushing, eyes guarded, hand scratching nervously at the back of his neck. 

_“It’s just something for class. Nothing special.”_

Enjolras had gaped at him, looked at the painting again and then back at Grantaire. _“Nothing special? Grantaire, this is…beautiful. Truly.”_

Grantaire had instantly lowered his eyes and shaken his head, but not before a small smile had crossed his features. 

Jolted back to the present, he took a deep breath, shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against the canvas. He could remember so clearly the way his heart had sped up a little bit at Grantaire’s smile. Grantaire had flushed at his praise and it had made Enjolras’ breath catch a little. At the time he hadn’t yet figured out why. 

He set the painting to the side and let his fingers trail across it gently. He’d hang this one up in the living room. 

Standing up again, he opened one of the drawers to find a rubber band so he could tie his hair back; it was getting long again. Grantaire would’ve liked it. 

_“I should get a haircut…”_

_“That is a terrible, terrible idea.”_

He laughed, recalling the serious frown on Grantaire’s face and how he had shaken his head slowly, clearly set against even the mere suggestion. He was startled by how good it felt to laugh at a memory. Maybe it wouldn’t always break his heart to remember. 

The next painting he picked up made him frown and for a few moments he couldn’t remember why. It was angry and abstract…lots of reds and blacks and grays, all colors Grantaire used more often than not, but this was different. There wasn’t a clear picture here like the last one, but Enjolras could nearly feel what Grantaire must have whenever he painted it. It almost looked like a battle that would never be won, an endless fight, two sides forever in opposition to one another…and the overall feeling that it hurt to be that way. 

And just like that, he remembered when he’d first seen this painting. 

_“You know what? Forget it. There’s no talking to you when you’re like this and we’ve had this argument a thousand times before.”_

_“Yeah, okay fine. Just walk away then. Turn your back and walk away the same way you do with everything.”_

_“Fuck you, Enjolras.”_

The argument hadn’t been anything new. He couldn’t even recall the specifics, but he knew the cause had been the same as it had always been. Enjolras’ idealism and need to enact change with action versus Grantaire’s nihilistic belief that nothing would ever change. 

Grantaire had slammed the door shut to his room at the end of the argument and Enjolras had stormed out of the apartment all together. He’d wanted to call Combeferre but had decided against it, knowing that his friend would listen but that he had to be sick of hearing what was essentially the same story over and over again. He’d certainly been sick of telling it. He’d wondered how long it would take him to realize that he couldn’t change everything…especially not Grantaire’s mind. Not about things like this. 

He’d come home a few hours later to find the door to Grantaire’s room partially open, the smell of cigarettes and paint drifting into the hallway. He’d stood there for a long time, leaning against the doorframe and thinking about what he should say. 

_“Stop lurking in the hallway, Apollo and come in.”_

_“How did you know I was here?”_

_“You think very loudly.”_

Grantaire had smiled at him when he’d walked inside, but it was weary and cautious and Enjolras had suddenly felt awful for the argument and for all the others before it. He’d crossed the room quickly and pulled Grantaire into his arms and had held him tightly. Hesitant for only a moment, Grantaire had then returned his embrace just as tightly and leaned his head against Enjolras’. 

_“I’m sorry, R.”_

_“I’m sorry too.”_

Quiet words that had been just as incomplete as they always were. The only thing that had given them more meaning was the way they’d held so tightly to one another. 

_“Show me what you painted.”_

_“I don’t think you’ll like it much.”_

_“Why, did you draw me as something horrible?”_

_“That’s not possible…”_

This was that painting. It wasn’t just Grantaire’s anger over their argument, but also his fear, regret and hurt. And not just over one fight. Despite how much they had loved and needed one another, they had always been at odds over the world. It had never truly harmed their relationship, and they were both very much in love, but sometimes, underneath it all there was a thread of insecurity in both of them that left them shaky and upset after an argument. In all the years they’d been together, it had never once changed. 

He wasn’t sure what to do with this painting. He didn’t want to give it to anyone else, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hang it up, see it every day and be reminded of moments and feelings that still hurt too much. 

It took a while but he finally managed to force himself to stop thinking about the past and things that he couldn’t change. Instead, he held onto Courfeyrac’s earlier reassurances that Grantaire had known how much he loved him. He propped the painting up against the side of the desk so that it was out of his line of sight. Maybe someday he’d be able to look at it without feeling the lingering regret that he didn’t know how to dispel. 

There were a few more left…random landscapes, some that were more modern and abstract, a few of their friends. He smiled at those and thought about who to give them to. He knew that Jehan would like to have a couple and Eponine as well. For the first time he let himself think about how he wasn’t the only one who had lost someone they loved. Feeling vaguely selfish, he vowed to try his best to open up to them if they’d let him, because he wasn’t the only one who had loved and now missed Grantaire. Maybe sharing in that sadness wouldn’t be as terrible as he’d been thinking it would be. After all, trying to forget had gotten him nowhere. He was two years behind in wanting to share his grief with the people who had known and loved Grantaire most. Maybe remembering – painful as it was to know what he had lost – was the better option. 

The last painting he uncovered was one he remembered vividly. It was a self-portrait of sorts, but the only view of Grantaire was the back of his head looking out on the scene before him…it was more of a view of how he saw the world. Directly in front of him was a scene full of warmth and color that was immediately comforting. It was more abstract than precise, but Enjolras knew what it was meant to represent. The vague outlines of people, close together and amorphous, brightly and warmly colored – their friends, all of whom were more like family – and a swatch of red standing out vividly in what would have been Grantaire’s immediate line of sight. Enjolras knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was meant to represent him. 

But beyond that scene lay another, bleeding into the edges of the warmth. It was full of dark blues and blacks and shadowy figures that threatened to reach out and swallow the happier colors in front of him. It was the darkness that lingered on the edge of Grantaire’s happiness, the depression and despair that he couldn’t always escape. It was what made him drink until he could no longer think some nights and what kept him up on others, sober and clinging to Enjolras tightly in the dark. 

Grantaire had been happy with him, of that he had no doubt. And Grantaire had loved him and their friends above all else. But there had still been days that he hadn’t been able to escape all of the troubles and worries that had plagued him for a long time. 

The first time he had seen this painting it had been like a punch to the gut. He’d wanted to hold Grantaire so tightly and find any way he could to chase away the things that haunted him. Grantaire had watched him nervously as he’d looked at it and Enjolras had been speechless. 

_“It’s awful, isn’t it?”_

Enjolras had barely been able to breathe, but he’d turned quickly to Grantaire, taken his face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. 

_“It’s…incredible.”_

It had been woefully inadequate for what he’d wanted to express, but for the first time in his life he couldn’t find the words. But Grantaire had slumped in his arms, buried his face in his neck and wrapped his arms tightly around his waist in relief. 

He’d submitted this painting to a small gallery when they’d been accepting pieces for local, unknown artists. Twice, Enjolras had to convince him not to change his mind. 

_“It’s terrible. I should call them back and tell them just to get rid of it.”_

_“Grantaire, stop. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen you paint.”_

_“That’s not saying much.”_

_“It’s saying a hell of a lot. Believe me.”_

He’d hated the way self-esteem never came easily to Grantaire. And what he hated most of all was how a huge portion of what little self-esteem he had was tied to Enjolras’ opinion. 

But the piece had been immensely popular at the gallery. Several people had stopped to tell Grantaire how stunning they thought it was, and although he’d done his best to turn each compliment into something self-deprecating, after a while it had been harder for him to manage. There had been a hint of pride there that had made Enjolras so very happy. 

Despite quite a few offers to buy the painting, Grantaire had been loath to part with it. He’d hated it as much as he’d loved it, but it was so very, very personal that the idea of it hanging in someone else’s house had felt like a violation. To keep the gallery happy, Enjolras had decided to buy it. He knew the gallery was one of Grantaire’s favorites, so he made them a sizable donation in exchange for the painting. He’d paid for it by dipping into the trust fund his parents had left him and that he never touched other than to donate to a worthy cause. 

He’d told Grantaire that there was no cause worthier than his boyfriend’s happiness. Grantaire had looked at him like he was deciding between punching and kissing him, but he had been grateful nonetheless. 

_“You are an infuriating asshole sometimes, but I love you anyway. And…thank you.”_

He wasn’t surprised by the tears he now felt on his face, and once again he sank down to the floor, painting in his hands. He let his head drop back against the desk and shut his eyes. There was only one place he wanted this painting to be, and it wasn’t here. The gallery that had shown it the first time was now a fairly popular one, and Enjolras made a decision to call them the next day and see if they would like to have it for display. He didn’t want to sell it to them, but he didn’t want to keep it in the apartment either. And he liked the idea of a small piece of the world seeing something of Grantaire’s. 

The last canvas in the closet was blank. 

He almost dismissed it, figuring he could donate it to a local school in need of supplies, but the box of paints in the closet caught his eye and he pulled them out slowly and sifted through the colors. He opened a few and could tell by the smell that they probably weren’t very good since they’d been sitting there for two years. But when he mixed them around with a paintbrush they seemed decent enough. He set some of them down on the desk and set the canvas on the easel near the window. 

His mind was blissfully blank as he dipped the brush into one of the colors – green – and ran the brush slowly over the white canvas. He didn’t have a plan or a thought or a reason…but was instead, simply just consumed by the moment. Maybe this was one of the reasons Grantaire had enjoyed painting as much as he had. He could ignore his troubles and his thoughts for a little bit and just simply create. 

A good forty-five minutes later, the canvas – and much of the floor – was covered in paint. His face was streaked with tears and as he took a step back to take in his work of art, he laughed. It was nothing more than streaks of color on canvas. It wasn’t modern or full of some layered meaning; instead it looked a lot like a child’s finger painting. And he couldn’t stop laughing over it. 

The tears that fell now were due to the laughter. It was cathartic and freeing in a way he had never expected. He could nearly feel Grantaire next to him, as if he were still here. Enjolras let his eyes fall shut, a smile still bright on his face, and he sucked in a sharp breath as he imagined Grantaire pressed against his back, arms sliding around his waist. He could nearly feel his warm breath against his neck as he propped his chin on his shoulder. 

_“Hmm. I think maybe you should stick to overthrowing the government, Apollo. Because painting? Isn’t your thing.”_

His heart ached sharply when he heard Grantaire’s voice in his head saying the words he imagined he would say, but he still couldn’t stop smiling. He hugged his arms around his chest and took a watery breath, tears springing to his eyes again despite the smile on his face. 

“I miss you so much, Grantaire,” he said aloud to the empty room. It didn’t _feel_ empty though. Maybe it was the paintings and the memories or maybe it was something else. He didn’t believe in ghosts and he had no idea what happened after death, but he liked to hope that Grantaire was at peace. And if somehow he was nearby in some form or another, Enjolras hoped he knew how much he still loved him. 

He left the canvas on the easel to dry and gathered up the paints and brushes to throw away. It was getting dark outside and once again he remembered Combeferre’s advice about not pushing himself too hard, so he decided to stop for the evening. But before he left the room he grabbed the photo off of the desk. The photo that he’d broken down over. The photo that Combeferre must have picked up off of the floor. The photo he’d been purposely ignoring. He shut off the light in Grantaire’s room and took that photo with him to the couch. 

“I love you,” he murmured softly. He laid back and traced a finger gently over Grantaire’s face. Swallowing over the lump in his throat he shut his eyes and let himself remember when the photo was taken. 

He honestly couldn’t remember what cause had been consuming him at the time. If he had ever admitted that out loud, he could imagine what Grantaire would’ve said. 

_“Just proves how whatever it was must have been pretty pointless and wouldn’t have changed anything anyway. Especially if_ you _can’t remember what it was.”_

But that wasn’t why he couldn’t remember. All he could remember was how nervous he’d been because of what he’d been planning for later in the evening, after this picture had been taken. It was the night he’d asked Grantaire to move in with him. 

They’d been out of college for a few months, had been officially dating for over a year and had been whatever they’d been to each other prior to that practically since the first night Jehan had introduced them and they’d ended up in a heated argument. 

Grantaire had been teasing him about something, probably mocking his now-forgotten cause with a grin and a wink. But he had been close, arm around his shoulders, fingers slipping into his hair every now and then. Grantaire had never been able to resist touching his hair for too long. It had taken a while but by then Enjolras had been comfortable being affectionate with Grantaire in public. 

They hadn’t really been having an official meeting that night. Meetings were a bit of a rarity since they had graduated from college and moved on to jobs, grad school or med school. But they still met up often enough to discuss some things they hoped to change and at the very least, to socialize. Growing apart had never been an option any of them had considered. 

Everyone had been milling around, getting drinks and talking. Grantaire had been half listening, commenting here and there, but Enjolras had only really been paying attention to him. His close proximity and how nervous he’d been to ask the question he’d been trying to form in his mind for days. 

_“You seem distracted. Everything okay?”_

Enjolras had nodded, swallowed hard and turned to face him, heart flipping over in his chest as he’d met Grantaire’s soft smile. Despite his nerves, he’d been determined to get the words out. 

_“I’m fine. I just…wanted to ask you something.”_

_“I’m all ears, Apollo.”_

Enjolras had leaned in a little more closely, the sounds of their friends fading into the background as he’d reached out and let his fingers slip up Grantaire’s arm to grip his shoulder. Grantaire still had one hand at the back of his neck, and he’d reached up to cover Enjolras’ hand with his other. 

_“I…I want to know if…”_

_“Hey kids, we’re getting something to eat, are you coming?”_

Courfeyrac had interrupted them and Enjolras had rolled his eyes and glared up at him. Grantaire had waved him away and turned back to Enjolras, a smile still on his face but a little bit of concern in his eyes. Enjolras had known that his nerves must have been written all over his face. He’d shaken his head and sighed. 

_“Later?”_

Enjolras had simply nodded. 

Later had come as they’d been walking home after dinner with their friends. Technically, he’d still been living with Jehan, but Grantaire had been spending most nights at Enjolras’ place for a while. He had clothes there, food, some sketchbooks…but Enjolras had known it wasn’t the same. And he’d wanted so very badly to share everything with Grantaire. Especially his home. He’d wanted it to be _their_ home. 

Grantaire had slipped his hand into Enjolras’ as they walked, fingers threading through his as he’d tugged him a little closer. They’d been outside of the apartment building and Enjolras had reached for his keys, but stopped himself as they got closer to the front door. His heart beat had sped up as he’d reached into his other pocket for the single key he’d brought with him earlier. He’d actually been carrying it around for a few days but hadn’t yet worked up the courage to ask. 

Grantaire had smiled at him when they’d reached the door, but rather than unlock it, Enjolras had instead taken a deep breath and slipped the single key into Grantaire’s palm. 

_“For you, R. If you want it…if you want to…move in with me?”_

Grantaire’s eyes had widened for a second and he’d gripped both the key and Enjolras’ hand tightly. Uncertainty had flashed over his face for just a moment, but Enjolras had watched – heart in his throat – as he’d forced it away and had looked at Enjolras with so much love in his eyes. 

_“Yes. I…of course Enjolras. Yes.”_

And Enjolras’ heart had soared. He’d gripped Grantaire’s hoodie and pulled him in for a warm, lingering kiss that they’d both broken away from with smiles on their faces. Enjolras had let Grantaire unlock the door with his key and they had stumbled all over one another as they’d kissed and laughed and pressed each other close in an attempt to get up the stairs and into the apartment. 

A text from Cosette saved him from becoming too lost in the memory and pulled him back to the present with a jolt. 

_Dinner on Saturday at our place. The usual. Would love to have you, but we understand if you're not up for it. xo_

Cosette and Marius hosted dinner at their house almost every Saturday; it was a standing invitation for all of their friends. Not everyone showed up every Saturday, but most of them tried to. No one ever planned anything official, but they usually each brought food or drink to save their hosts from cooking for them every weekend. Enjolras hadn't gone in quite some time. He hadn't avoided any of his friends for the past two years, but he _had_ avoided seeing them all at the same time. When they were all together at once it seemed that Grantaire's absence was only more glaring. 

Now though, he knew he had to try. He missed them all and especially all together. He could almost hear Grantaire's voice in his ear again, insisting that he get out and spend time with their friends and not stay cooped up inside being sad. 

“Easy for you to say,” he murmured. Shaking his head, he smiled a little and laughed, wondering if he was crazy for holding one-sided conversations between himself and what he thought Grantaire might say. He wondered if he'd always have the other man's voice in his head teasing him or arguing with him. He hoped so. 

Seeing everyone for dinner would be a good place to start reconnecting with them. And he knew that none of them would push; they were all aware of how private he could be when it came to his feelings. So the idea of accepting Cosette’s invitation was quickly becoming easier. He really didn’t have any excuse to say no and he knew that if he did, they would all worry…Combeferre and Courfeyrac especially. It would be difficult to be there without Grantaire, yes, but the alternative was sitting at home alone again and missing him. Maybe missing him among his friends would be better, especially when he thought about how those friends also missed him. Maybe talking about him wouldn’t be as painful as he thought it would be. In the past two years he’d done very little talking, so the change might do him good. 

And those Saturday dinners were _easy_. It wasn’t much different from when they used to have meetings in the back room of the Musain when they’d been in college. Friendly conversations, gossip, drinking, eating, socializing. The only difference was the lack of Enjolras planning their next move of activism. And over the years he’d come to realize that despite the changes he still wished to bring about and despite his near-constant need to be doing something productive, spending time with his friends just for the sake of being together wasn’t a bad thing. It was in fact, something he had come to treasure. His friends were his family and despite losing the love of his life, he still needed them. Maybe he needed them now more than ever. 

He thought back several years ago to the night of Marius  & Cosette’s wedding. He remembered Grantaire laughing at him as he’d sat in front of him on the sink in their bathroom and swatted his hands out of the way to tie his bowtie. 

_“So this is why your ties are always undone and hanging around your neck. You just don’t know how to tie them properly.”_

_“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a regular tie, let alone a bowtie. How do you know how to tie one?!”_

_“I know lots of things that you don’t know about.”_

He had smirked at Enjolras and pulled him in closer by the lapels of his tuxedo to kiss him before quickly forming his bowtie into a perfect bow. When he’d finished getting ready and had come out into the living room about a half an hour later, dressed in his own tux, Enjolras had been breathless. He hadn’t been able to recall ever seeing Grantaire dressed in anything other than jeans so this had been quite a change. And Enjolras wouldn’t have changed him for the world, but he hadn’t been able to help staring. 

_“Do I look that ridiculous?”_

_“No. You uh…you look that good.”_

They had both blushed at his words and Grantaire had spent the rest of the evening smiling a little shyly anytime he caught Enjolras looking at him for too long. 

Enjolras had never been fond of weddings. He had childhood memories of being at them with his parents, extended family and throngs of other people, all the same, all concerned with the same superficial things. As a teenager he could remember trying to find a place to hide, but always being found by his parents so they could introduce him to people he had no desire to know. 

But this had been the first wedding he’d attended for one of his own friends, and it had been an entirely different sort of experience. Although Marius and Cosette could occasionally be on the nauseatingly-sweet side, it was easy to see that they were genuinely in love and very happy together. The ceremony had been brief but touching, and they’d elected to have their reception in the spacious yard at Cosette’s father’s house. 

But what Enjolras had remembered most had been dancing with Grantaire. He hated dancing. Mostly because he wasn’t particularly good at it and slow-dancing had always seemed pointless to him. But there had been a lot of things about relationships Enjolras had never understood until he had found himself in one. He’d been reluctant to dance that night too, but Grantaire had been rather insistent. 

They’d stayed towards the side of the dance floor, in the far end of the yard where it was a little less crowded. Enjolras had been happy to let Grantaire lead and Grantaire had held him close, arm tight around his back, fingers intertwined. Enjolras had managed to avoid stepping on Grantaire’s feet and had been happy to stay close and lose himself in the moment for a while. 

That was another thing he’d never understood before that had come so easily with Grantaire: living in the moment. But he’d been happy to let his thoughts drift and just stay where he was, swaying back and forth to the music, head pressed against Grantaire’s, wrapped tightly in his arms. 

_“Enjolras?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“You know how much I love you, right?”_

Enjolras had frowned and pulled back slightly to study Grantaire’s face, suddenly a little concerned by how serious his expression had become. 

_“Of course I do. Is something wrong?”_

Grantaire had shaken his head and chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip for a few moments. When he’d met Enjolras’ eyes again his own had been earnest and slightly on the desperate side. But he’d shaken his head at Enjolras’ concerned expression and had forced a half smile. 

_“I’m sorry…apparently weddings make me overly sentimental. I just…I want to make sure you know that I love you so very much. And I never really felt like I belonged anywhere or had anyone to rely on until I met all of you and came to realize that this is what it feels like to have a family. But you…you’re the most important person to me in the world. And I know that we argue more than we agree, and that we see the world so very differently, but I wouldn’t change a thing about any of it. And I just…I love you.”_

He’d let out a shaky breath and smiled that same half-smile again. The smile that meant he was feeling particularly self-conscious and was desperately hoping that what he’d said would be received favorably but was fully prepared to disguise his hurt and laugh it off if it wasn’t. Enjolras had learned to read that smile a long time ago. 

Enjolras had wrapped both arms tightly around Grantaire’s back and pulled him as close as he could. He’d pressed one hand to the back of his neck and kissed him slowly and deeply, putting every ounce of love he felt – but couldn’t always say – into that kiss. When they’d eventually pulled apart, he’d pressed his palm to Grantaire’s cheek and ran his thumb back and forth over his skin. 

_“I wouldn’t change anything either. I promise you that I know how you feel…and I hope you know that I love you very much too.”_

Grantaire had smiled at him, cheeks flushed, eyes suspiciously bright. He’d kissed Enjolras again, smiling against his lips as he’d pulled him closer. 

Enjolras remembered the rest of the night fondly, Grantaire’s words of love echoing in his mind. 

There were tears in his eyes when he glanced down at the picture of the two of them again, but they were bittersweet now and less painful than before. It was always going to hurt…he knew that with complete certainty. But he didn’t want to forever remember Grantaire with sadness. He wanted to be able to look back and laugh, to look back with his friends and share in the memories with everyone else who had loved him. 

Sitting up, he wiped his fingers over his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Carefully, he set the photo of the two of them down on the coffee table and picked up his phone. 

When he texted Cosette back he could almost feel Grantaire’s arms around him, chin against his shoulder as he nodded approvingly. He shut his eyes and shivered a little, hoping that wherever Grantaire was now, he was smiling. 

_Thanks for the invitation. I’ll be there._

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd...any mistakes are my own. Song lyrics from "I Remember You" - originally written by Johnny Mercer. Aaron Tveit version listened to repeatedly while I wrote this. ;)


End file.
